I expect her to turn into a bird and fly away, but she doesn’t. She shifts her weight to her other foot and wrings her hands. ‘When I was in the house earlier, I sensed the demons in the shadows. I wish I could have destroyed them, but I’m not strong enough and I cannot put your sisters at risk.’

She drops her gaze and I can see how much it pains her to tell me this. The idea of spending another night in the house fills me with dread, but I know the witches are weakening. I see it all the time, their appearance flickering as if they’re finding it harder to conceal their true form: aged, decrepit, dying.

I touch her arm. ‘I understand.’

She shakes her head, her expression grim. ‘I’m not sure that you do. There are far more demons than I first thought and they’re growing stronger – much stronger.’

25

I enter the kitchen and what I see makes me gasp. Every cupboard door and drawer stands open, packets of food and eggshells scattered across the countertop, a bag of flour on its side, its white contents spilt on the floor. My mum’s jars of herbs are no longer on the dresser but lie strewn across the table, their lids removed. Everywhere I look are pots and pans and baking trays, as if they’ve been hurled to the ground by a dark force.

Tom leans against the oven and licks something from a wooden spoon, seemingly oblivious to the carnage around him. He pulls a disgusted face then seems to reconsider and goes back for another taste. From the way he smacks his lips and winces, it hasn’t improved.

He sees me and nods towards a pile of cookbooks on the table, their cheerful covers easy to spot amongst the titles on witchcraft. ‘I found some recipes and thought I’d give them a try,’ he explains. ‘Demon Dining for One had a nice beef goulash, but the oven cremated it. So I made a frittata from Fiendishly Good Cuisine.’

‘Are you OK, Tom?’

He rubs his head. ‘Sorry, I may have spent too much time reading about demons.’ He sniffs the spoon in his hand and holds it out to me. ‘What do you reckon? I think it might need something, but I’m not sure what.’

‘Putting in the bin?’

He smiles and says wryly, ‘If it doesn’t work out we can always get Deliveroo.’

‘Well, then, we’re saved.’

I consider asking him to step away from the wooden spoon, slowly and with his hands up, but then I remember what Morgan said. He might be acting oddly because this is his way of coping, or he could be changed in some way. Until I know for sure, I should probably tread carefully, which is just as well given the state of the floor.